The Shadow Bird

by Ann Gosslin

  ‘Meghan.’

  She returned to the chair and perched on the arm. ‘I’m supposed to be on call this weekend, but something’s come up. A personal errand. Would it be all right to switch with someone? Andrea, perhaps?’

  He checked the schedule on his computer. ‘Andrea’s not available. But Greta’s free. I’ll see if she can switch with you.’

  Erin inwardly groaned. An emergency was unlikely, but she hated the idea of Greta going anywhere near her patients. Having convinced Tim’s caseworker, a woman named Lydia Belmont, to let her tag along on the home study to Stern’s house, she couldn’t back out now. She only hoped the trip to Vermont would be worth it.

  *

  After lunch, Erin drove across the city to the Riverside Mall. For weeks she’d been carrying around a list of things she needed for the flat. With two new patients, today might be the last break she’d have in her schedule for some time.

  She pulled into the car park to find it nearly full. She disliked crowds and her resolve faltered. As she scanned the signs for the nearest exit, a flash of colour attracted her attention. A group of schoolgirls lounged in the weak sun by the entrance to the mall, their bright puffy jackets unzipped to reveal tight jeans and cropped tees. Cheap earrings caught the light. Holding their cigarettes in exaggerated poses, they exhaled great plumes of smoke into the air. A slender girl with short spiky hair tinted pink at the ends threw back her head and laughed. Cassie.

  Erin gripped the wheel. Should she wave or call her over? Better not. It would only embarrass the girl in front of her friends.

  As if sensing her presence, Cassie turned her head and caught sight of Erin through the windscreen. She appraised her coolly before punching the girl next to her playfully on the arm. With the nonchalance of a thirties screen siren, she took a drag on her cigarette and tilted her chin to release a stream of smoke.

  Did Cassie recognise her? Or had Erin been tossed on the rubbish heap of bad memories, best forgotten?

  17

  Matlock, Vermont

  March, Present Day

  ‘Do you think that’s it?’ Erin pointed to a lone white farmhouse, situated on a gentle rise and wreathed in morning mist. As instructed, they’d driven four miles east of the tiny hamlet of Matlock, through long stretches of forest and farmland, in the direction of Stern’s home.

  ‘It must be.’ Lydia Belmont, Tim’s caseworker, peered through the windscreen at the house. ‘We haven’t seen anything else that fits the description.’ They were a few minutes early and she pulled the car to the side of the road.

  Erin cracked the window. The smell of decaying leaves and damp earth filled the car.

  ‘Pretty countryside,’ Lydia said. ‘Though it wouldn’t be my first choice to retire up here. Too cold in winter for my old bones.’

  Forest and farmland spread to the horizon. In the distance, plum-coloured mountains poked through the mist. A picture of bucolic charm, or it would be, once spring showed its face. But Erin shuddered to think what it was like here in the dead of winter, famous for its paralysing ice storms and the blizzards that cut off lonely houses like this one for days.

  She slid her glasses on her nose and coiled her hair into a knot. The glasses were a silly affectation, but they gave her a confidence she didn’t feel. The prospect of meeting Tim’s father had set her nerves on edge. ‘Thanks for letting me come along,’ Erin said. ‘I realise it’s a bit unusual.’

  Lydia pulled up to the house and switched off the engine. ‘It’s an unusual case.’

  *

  The front door swung open, and a man stepped out. In his pressed khaki trousers and moss-green jumper over a white-collared shirt, he could have strolled out of a menswear catalogue.

  ‘Good morning, ladies.’ Belying his age, he bounded down the steps to greet them, exuberant as a Labrador. ‘I hope you didn’t have trouble finding the place.’ Behind the horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes, wreathed in lines, were a lively blue. ‘Most people make a wrong turn on Hunter’s Creek Road and get lost in the forest. One of you must have excellent navigational skills.’ He winked. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Ms Belmont.’ He clasped her hand and held it for a fraction longer than necessary, before turning to Erin. ‘And you must be Dr Cartwright,’ he said, giving her a searching look as he shook her hand. His palm was smooth and dry, the nails spotless. Not the hand of someone used to manual labour.

  Lydia hefted her satchel of files. ‘Thank you for seeing us, Mr Stern.’

  ‘Call me Warren,’ he said. ‘Mr Stern sounds much too formal, don’t you think?’

  Warren? Erin wondered when he’d changed it. Tim’s insistence on being called Timothy might all be for nothing.

  As Stern turned to usher them in, she caught a glimpse of his profile, and a wave of something akin to déjà vu ran through her. Could they have met before? Not likely, even in passing. It must be Tim’s features she saw in the man’s face. Though there was little of Tim in Stern’s finely cut jaw and clear aqua eyes, a hint of a common genetic heritage was evident.

  The smell of freshly baked bread greeted them in the front hall. After herding them into the spacious kitchen, with its black granite countertops and butter-yellow walls, Stern made straight for a chrome espresso maker on the counter.

  ‘Can I interest you ladies in a cup of coffee?’ He gave the espresso machine an affectionate pat. ‘Retirement gift from my firm.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘I was a Folgers man for thirty-odd years. Vacuum-packed coffee in a can, that’s what I liked. But then we got one of these babies at the office, and I couldn’t believe how good the coffee was. Can you imagine? My whole life I was drinking owl’s piss – ’scuse my French – when I could have been having the real thing.’ He rubbed away a smudge on the chrome. ‘This little machine does everything but shine your shoes. Espresso, cappuccino, latte. What’s your pleasure? Don’t be shy.’ He waggled his fingers above the controls, like a magician poised to pull a rabbit from a hat.

  Lydia lowered her satchel to the floor. ‘We stopped for coffee on the drive up, so I’m fine, thank you.’

  Erin considered following Lydia’s lead but decided it would be more interesting to play along. ‘I’ll have a coffee,’ she said. ‘A cappuccino.’

  ‘One cappuccino, coming up.’ As he pushed buttons and pulled levers, the machine steamed and gurgled. When the noise stopped, he bowed with a flourish and handed her a frothy cappuccino in a glass mug. ‘Ms Belmont, may I tempt you with some freshly squeezed orange juice?’

  Before Lydia could answer, a woman appeared in the doorway. Erin started. She’d thought the three of them were alone in the house.

  As the woman stared at the threesome in the kitchen, her startlingly youthful eyes, the handiwork of a surgeon with questionable skill, were at odds with the rest of her heavily lined face. ‘Sorry to disturb, Mr Stern,’ she said, ‘but I’m on my way out to do the shopping. Is there anything else you’re wanting that’s not on the list?’

  He barely glanced at the slip of paper she showed him. ‘Looks fine to me. Thank you, Mrs Gallagher.’

  The woman retreated and tapped smartly down the hall. Stern waited until they heard the front door close before showing them into a spacious sitting room, where a fire was lit in the hearth.

  ‘My housekeeper,’ he said, gesturing for them to sit on the pale suede sofa. ‘Couldn’t keep this place shipshape without her.’ Grasping an iron poker, he prodded the smouldering logs until they burst into flame.

  Erin briefly closed her eyes, trying to catch hold of the distant memory triggered by the smell of burning apple wood. A camping trip at the height of summer, before her father died. A cabin in the woods, the crinkle of pine needles.

  Over the rim of her glass, she discreetly inspected the room. Polished oak floor, damask drapes, a Persian carpet in pale blue and grey. A distinct absence of family photos or other personal effects. Not terribly surprising, considering Stern’s history. Perhaps Mrs Gallagher was responsible for the décor an
d believed in a light touch. Somehow, Erin couldn’t picture Stern selecting throw pillows and window treatments from a shop.

  A log collapsed into coals, sending up a shower of sparks. Stern sat in the slate-grey wingback chair by the fireplace, while she and Lydia settled on the brushed suede sofa.

  ‘I can guess what you’re thinking, Dr Cartwright,’ he said, after a lengthy pause. ‘Why would I, after such a terrible tragedy, offer to take in my son? A man most people view, I imagine, as some kind of monster.’ He held Erin’s gaze. ‘Since I’m not one to beat around the bush, allow me to answer your question.’ Stern leaned forward and clasped his hands. ‘Do you believe in God, Dr Cartwright?’

  She stiffened, her cappuccino halfway to her lips. His eyes, lit by an inner fire, were fastened on her own. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘God, Dr Cartwright. The Great Almighty. Divine creator of this marvellous world, of all creatures great and small.’ He swept his hand towards the window, as if the creator himself might be lurking in the garden.

  ‘I’m not particularly religious.’

  ‘That’s a pity now, isn’t it?’ His expression turned to one of sorrow. ‘Not that I’m making any judgements, mind.’ He raised his hands, palms out. ‘In fact, I used to be a non-believer myself, as confirmed an atheist as you’d ever find. But then, a few years ago – seven, to be exact,’ he said, pointing his finger at the ceiling, ‘I was awakened one night from a deep sleep and the Almighty appeared before me in a ray of light.’ He looked searchingly into their faces. ‘Ever since that miraculous occurrence, I’ve given myself over to His will.’

  Erin cast a sideways glance at Lydia. Ever the professional, her face was impossible to read.

  ‘And let me tell you what a transformation it was,’ Stern was saying. He stood and approached the window. When he spoke again, his voice nearly boomed, as he raised his arms to the ceiling. ‘As if a choir of angels had illuminated the dark corners of my soul. And every last one was singing the Hallelujah chorus. Since that day, the light of God has flowed through my very being. Every moment of every day. I don’t know how I lived without Him before.’

  His eyes glittered, his cheeks were flushed. Erin said nothing.

  ‘And how about you, Ms Belmont. Are you a believer?’

  Lydia set her untouched orange juice on the table by her side. ‘Indeed, I am, sir. I attend the First Methodist church in Albany every Sunday morning.’

  Stern beamed. ‘Then you, madam, know what I’m talking about. Didn’t Jesus say, “hate the sin, not the sinner”? So, who are we, as mere mortals, to pass judgement on others? Only God can do that.’

  Erin regarded Stern with a twinge of doubt. This was the big reveal? An evangelical epiphany. Tim being the sinner, and the sin… the murder of Stern’s wife and daughters. Or was it a means of pre-empting the one burning question he knew they would ask? Why?

  In two strides, he returned to his chair, where he leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankle. Lord of the manor, master of his realm.

  ‘Dr Cartwright, you look sceptical.’ Stern’s eyes pinned her to the sofa. ‘I’m happy to tell you anything you’d like to know.’

  When she set her half-drunk cappuccino on the table, the click of glass on the polished stone was loud in the stillness. Another log collapsed into coals. Their visit was meant to be a home study, not an inquisition, but Erin was bursting with questions. She glanced at Lydia, who gave her the go-ahead with the briefest of nods.

  ‘All right,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light. ‘After twenty-seven years of no contact with your son, why have you suddenly offered to take him under your roof?’ They eyed each other across the distance. ‘Why give shelter to the man who murdered your wife and daughters?’

  Lydia sucked in her breath, but Erin refused to pull any punches. If Stern couldn’t handle a little tough questioning, he had no business taking on Tim, regardless of his motives. To paint a rosy picture of sharing a home with a mentally disturbed and long-institutionalised man would be a grave disservice.

  The skin round Stern’s eyes tightened, but then his expression turned earnest, and he leaned forward. ‘I found God, Dr Cartwright. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘You said you found God seven years ago. Why the delay in contacting your son?’

  He stood and poked at the glowing embers in the hearth. ‘When God came into my life, I was married to a lovely woman named Margaret. As kind and loving a wife as any man could ask for.’ He bowed his head and passed his hand over his eyes. ‘May God rest her soul.’

  Erin couldn’t help but picture the first wife. Hadn’t she been kind and loving?

  ‘When Margaret and I first met,’ he continued, ‘I’d been alone for nearly ten years, wallowing in the black hole of my grief. For months I was too much of a coward to tell her about my family. I even started using my middle name after the move to California. But I wasn’t a complete cad. Before I asked Margaret to marry me, I sat her down and told her everything.’ He searched their faces as if seeking absolution.

  ‘The poor woman was devastated. To her, Tim was the devil incarnate. She didn’t believe in mental illness, just good and evil. And she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t locked up in a prison for life rather than some cushy psychiatric hospital. Or that he might walk out of that hospital in the future. She wouldn’t agree to marry unless I severed all contact.’ His eyes brimmed with tears. ‘So, I did. I married Margaret and let Tim go. Last spring, after fifteen happy years together, she passed away from cancer. A remarkable woman. I miss her every day.’ He closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer, taking his seat once again.

  Erin and Lydia waited.

  ‘So, after your wife died,’ Erin prompted, ‘you were released from your promise, and free to contact your son?’

  ‘That’s right.’ His face brightened. ‘Six months ago, I called the hospital and spoke to this Harrison fellow. He told me about Tim, and how he could petition the state for his release. I understand he’s been eligible for quite a while now, but with nowhere for him to go, there was little chance of him getting out. Well, let me tell you, when I heard that, a light bulb went on. Here was a chance to do God’s work.’ He leaned back in the chair and beamed. ‘Now that I’m retired and on my own, I can offer a place of refuge to my son.’

  Erin waited for Lydia to chime in, but she was busy making notes for Tim’s file.

  At the back of the house, a phone rang. Stern let it ring five times, then six. ‘I suppose I should get that.’ He made a sign of apology. ‘If you ladies will excuse me.’

  His Italian loafers skimmed silently across the polished oak. In the hall, a floorboard creaked. Stern’s cheery ‘hello’ was clearly audible, but the rest faded as a door was closed. Impossible to make out any words, but the timbre of his voice seemed to change. He sounded angry.

  She ventured a whisper. ‘What do you think?’

  Lydia shook her head. Not now.

  Erin jumped when she caught sight of Stern in the doorway.

  She hadn’t heard him return. He crossed the room and tossed a birch log on the fire. With a sharp crackle, it burst into flame.

  18

  ‘Dr Cartwright, another cappuccino? Or perhaps you’d prefer tea? Though I can’t claim I’ve ever been to your neck of the woods, my idea of English folks is that they live on tea and scones.’

  ‘We have to be on our way soon,’ Lydia said, cutting in smoothly, ‘but before we go, it would be helpful to get a tour of the house and grounds. With your permission, I’d also like to take some photos for our files.’

  ‘Glad you mentioned it.’ Stern’s face split into a smile. ‘I was just working up to the grand tour. And feel free to take all the photos you need.’

  After leading them into the hallway, he expounded for several minutes on the house’s history, the provenance of the fanlight over the door, and the origin of the furniture, special-ordered from a Shaker community in upstate New York.

  With a prickle of i
mpatience, Erin listened with half an ear as Lydia snapped a couple of photos. They didn’t need an architect’s tour of the house, just a sense of its suitability for Tim. And it wasn’t the house that concerned her, but the location. The sense of isolation was acute, and they must be miles away from the nearest neighbour.

  ‘This room here is my den,’ Stern said, opening a door partway at the end of the hall, while keeping his hand on the knob. A mahogany desk faced a sash window, with the rattan blind half-drawn. On the bookshelf stood a row of hardbound law books.

  Erin glanced in briefly and turned away, only to be caught up short by a faded photo tacked to a corkboard. Something about the configuration of the group struck a chord. Two men in patterned shorts and a blonde woman standing on a rock-strewn beach. Behind them, a boy crouched at the water’s edge. Something about the woman’s pose and the design of orange and white diamonds on her dress looked familiar. A gold medallion in the shape of a sun glinted on her deeply tanned chest.

  ‘Not much to see here,’ Stern said, closing the door, just as Lydia pressed the shutter. He gave her an aggrieved look, before bouncing back into the gracious mode of host. ‘Tim won’t be interested in anything here. It’s the barn he’ll like, and the grounds. And his bedroom, of course.’

  They climbed the wooden staircase to the floor above. On a table by the hall window, a jade-green ceramic bowl held a dozen pinecones, artfully arranged.

  He pointed across the landing. ‘Tim’s room has a wonderful view of the barn and the duck pond.’

  The three of them stood in the doorway. Maplewood floors, blue walls the colour of a robin’s egg. Two sash windows looked out on the surrounding hills and the red barn, the one bright spot in the landscape. A single bed, covered with a patchwork quilt, appeared ready for its intended occupant. Paradise, after Greenlake, Erin mused. Or hell. So much space to contend with. Given Tim’s behaviour when they lunched in town, and his skittishness about venturing onto the clinic’s grounds, it was clear he had a fear of open places.